House of Reeds ittotss-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Gretchen studied the native's face and the gardener seemed weathered and weary, more like the tree than the languid, soft-shelled youths loitering in the shop doorways, narrow heads wreathed in pipe smoke. "Do you know stories about the Haraphan civilization? Do records survive from that time? In stone or metal or…"

  Malakar said nothing, regarding the human stonily. Her leathery lips twitched back, exposing rows of blackened teeth. Gretchen flinched and bowed automatically – still on her knees beside the invincible roadway – and pressed her forehead into the pavement. "Your pardon. Thank you for showing me the way home."

  "Huuuu…" The gardener made a thoughtful hooting sound, then rapped her staff on the ground again. "As I say, they last, perhaps longer than we."

  Then, before Gretchen could respond, the old Jehanan strode away without another word, the dark gray-green scales on her back dappled with sunlight falling through the branches of the ancient trees.

  Anderssen watched the gardener go, then realized she was alone on a public thoroughfare, surrounded by thousands of busy Jehanans. Some of them were now staring at her – suspiciously, she thought – and keeping a wide berth as they passed. Whatever polite grace the gardener had lent evaporated in her absence.

  Layers upon layers, she thought, turning towards the apartment building. Did she mean records of the Haraphan civilization still exist, perhaps when the equivalent Jehanan history has been lost? Or…does she mean the Haraphans themselves still live upon Jagan?

  Anderssen kept her head low as she headed home, hoping to avoid notice. In comparison to the placid rooftop gardens and industrious, half-seen workshops, the public street was very loud and dirty and filled with agitated, angry natives. The barking sound of runner-cart horns drowned out everything else, even the hissing shouts and complaints of the drivers.

  The Palace of The Kujen Gandaris, "The Indomitable, Ever-Victorious Bastion of the North"

  A spear struck the window of the Imperial aerocar, the lohaja-wood point scoring the armored glass before falling out of sight. Prince Tezozуmoc, sandwiched in between Colmuir and Corporal Clark, flinched at the sharp sound. The young man's eyes were screwed tight and his white-knuckled hands clutched his knees. The lean-faced Skawtsman peered out the window, taking in the surging mob filling the square below and eased the safety on his Nambu back with a soft click.

  "Now there is a vigorous reception, mi'lord. They do seem to love us here."

  The city residence of kujen Nahwar, prince of Gandaris, was a gaudy confection of russet domes and towers and fluted minarets gleaming with rust-colored marble. Colmuir could see a series of interlocking courtyards and gardens, all flush with green trees and limpid pools. Some of the inner buildings seemed to be entirely composed of flowering trellises. The stout, ten-meter-high battlement surrounding the palace would have seemed out of place, were it not for the thousands of angry Jehanan citizens swarming in the public square facing the residence. A squat gatehouse rose up out of a sea of gray-green faces, surmounted by an overhanging parapet. A cluster of Jehanan nobles was standing on the roof, well back from the edge, and Colmuir guessed the fat one in the middle with all the bronze and copper chasing on his body-harness was either the prince himself, or his vizier.

  Below, in the center of the square, the mob was tearing a wooden landing platform apart with their bare hands while a whole array of priests hammered enormous drums, bellowed encouragement to the crowd and waved forests of painted banners over their scaly heads. Any sign of princely authority had fled. Smoke billowed from an impromptu bonfire fed by wagons, meters of pro-Imperial posters and anything flammable to hand. The crowd around the fire parted, allowing a dozen husky Jehanan to topple an elaborate plaster statue of – well, the Skawt guessed the local artisans had tried to model the effigy on a public relations photo – a human head atop a Jehanan body into the bonfire.

  The statue crashed into leaping flames with a resounding crash and huge clouds of sparks leapt up. The cheering roar of the crowd penetrated the armored skin of the aerocar as a dull booming sound. Hooting in delight, the mob drew back as fresh jets of flame erupted from the collapsing mannequin, then rushed forward as the plaster broke apart and the effigy turned black, spewing an inordinate amount of heavy smoke. Another cart toppled into the conflagration.

  "Swing over the palace," Dawd said from his forward seat. The younger Skawtsman had a Bofors Whipsaw squad support weapon cradled in his arms, the six-barrel muzzle resting against his window. "See if there's someplace to land."

  The aerocar jolted to speed, sweeping through the air. A cloud of cobblestones, burning torches and more spears burst up from the mob, though Colmuir noted none of them had the raw strength of arm possessed by whoever had pitched the first spear. All of the missiles fell short, and then the aerocar was turning over the palace. Both Dawd and Colmuir studied the maze of gardens and pools and sharply pitched rooftops with growing dismay.

  "Nothing big enough," Dawd grumbled into the private comm linking him and Colmuir. "Unless we want to try a step-off onto one of those balconies."

  The master sergeant shook his head dourly. "We're aborting this drop. We'll go directly to the Gemmilsky house." He turned to look over the silent prince's head at the adjutant. "Corporal Clark, make sure the staff there is informed of our imminent arrival. I'll see if the Legation representative has his comm on down there…"

  The aerocar banked in a tight loop as the pilot took them back across the palace grounds. Dawd could see dozens of curious faces at the windows, and some of the Jehanan in the courtyards waved as they sped overhead. The young Skawtsman wondered if the clients of the kujen were truly friendly, or if they'd been ordered to put on a welcoming show. None of the Jehanan nobility he'd encountered so far had struck him as being truly interested in friendship with the Empire.

  They want whatever edge we can give them over their rivals, and I'm sure our diplomats are just as cynical in dealing with them. A sorry world, indeed. Dawd hid a sigh. He was sure the owner would be very gracious about being bumped out of his own house for the duration. Sounds like he's a tough customer, though. Can't be dealing in cross-border trade in this place without having something to back it up with. The Legation dossier on Johann Gemmilsky said the Polish nobleman was involved in a thriving import/export business – bringing sleek, Turzanian riding lizard stock down from the cold plains beyond Capisene and shipping a variety of machined products back north. Guns, Imperial guns I'll bet, for breeding stock. Hope that means he's rich and has real toilets in his house.

  Dawd could hear Clark speaking stiffly to someone on his comm and checked the ammunition load on his Whipsaw. He doubted Gemmilsky would get violent, but there was no guarantee the local rumor mill couldn't beat them to the townhouse in the form of another violent mob.

  "This is outrageous!" The honorable viscount Johann Gemmilsky's voice made the chandelier in the main entryway of his tidy little mansion shiver, crystalline droplets tinkling. "I offer my house for the prince's comfort – as a host, he as an honorable guest – and you say I must leave immediately? With only the shoes upon my feet? You are a rogue, sir!"

  Colmuir, feet firmly planted, hands clasped behind his back, looked down at the Pole and narrowed his eyes. "This residence is now the property of a Prince of the Blood, Gemmilsky-tzin. You'd best be packing a bag and spending the night at your mistress's boudoir. With the situation in the city being so…volatile…we can't have any strangers about. You understand, of course. Security. Now, Clawk here will give you a receipt and you can charge the Legation for damages, but you'll be out of here before the Light of the World steps through those doors, won't you?"

  Gemmilsky's pale blue eyes twitched from Colmuir's forbidding face to Dawd, then down to the black shape of the Whipsaw. The machine gun was politely pointed at the floor, but the younger Skawtsman knew he made a dangerous figure with the ammunition bandoliers looping over his chest and behind his back. The heavy dark combat jacket didn't hurt either.


  "I see. Very well. I will go, now, and be assured there will be a very careful accounting of everything in this house! There will be a bill for damages!"

  "I'm sure there will be," Colmuir said in a stolid voice. He inclined his head at the adjutant standing beside Dawd. "Corporal, see Gemmilsky-tzin on his way, will you?"

  Clark, giving the older Skawtsman a reproving look, escorted the businessman out of the hall.

  "That was a little harsh, Master Sergeant." Dawd said. "I doubt he's a security risk to the prince." At least he wasn't before! Now, though…who knows?

  Colmuir sniffed in disdain, looking around at the opulent wall hangings and hardwood floors. The house was certainly fit for the prince to lay his head on the silk pillows and featherbed the opulently appointed lower floors promised would be waiting upstairs. "I don't trust Poles and Russians, sergeant. You know that. Tricky, devilish fellows they are and murderous t' boot. The Light of Heaven himself has often told me to beware their wiles."

  Dawd didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "Of course. I'll bring the prince inside."

  "You do that," Colmuir said, picking up a slender vase from a small table set against one of the walls. He rubbed a thick, scarred finger across the golden porcelain with an appreciative eye. "I'll be checking the rooms for hidden devices, bombs, and the' like. Can't be too careful."

  The younger man considered saying something, then took in the calculating look on the master sergeant's face and decided to keep his opinions to himself. Now poor Corporal Clark will have to round up an air-truck to haul all this…booty away. The Resident is going to have an aneurysm when he gets the bill.

  Outside, Dawd hurried across a graveled carriageway, the collar of his jacket turned up against an unexpectedly cold wind, and opened the door of the aerocar. The Gemmilsky house was on a bit of a hill, surrounded by conical trees with long trailing limbs studded with sharp-edged leaves like an unwound accordion. The residence itself was three stories of marble-faced brick – all quite new, in a design which suggested a Russian boyar's villa implemented by a Jehanan architect who'd lost his glasses. In the air, the sergeant had praised the Mother and her Son for providing such a thick stand of foliage around the property. The pilot had dropped them straight in with the 'car fans on whisper, and Dawd hadn't seen a single Jehanan in line-of-sight.

  On the ground, though, his neck was prickling as the prince stepped out of the car and looked around in perplexed amusement. Just need one slick with a rifle or a compound bow in those trees, he worried, fingertips light on the Whipsaw's firing lever. And it's early retirement with no pension.

  "There isn't anyone to greet me," the prince said, rather petulantly. "Aren't there supposed to be singers and dancing monkeys and trays of sweets? I thought the kujen wanted me to come visit this dirty little city of his!"

  "We should go inside, sir." Dawd didn't think Gandaris was dirty at all – the city climbed the side of a thickly forested mountain in tiers of white and tan and russet buildings. The air was cool and the climate – from what he could see of the foliage and surrounding mountains – was temperate. A far cry from the dirty, industrial sprawl of Parus far to the south. Even the railway line they'd followed along the winding valley seemed to be well maintained, with painted bridges each time the tracks crossed over the swift, white-flecked current of the Kophen. He could understand why Gemmilsky had chosen to set up shop here, where you could smell something like pine resin on the wind, and there were white-capped peaks lining the horizon in every direction.

  Tezozуmoc gave him a hurt look, put down his head and walked quickly to the side door of the house. Dawd waved the pilot to park the 'car in the carriage house and, walking backwards, his eyes restlessly scanning the trees beyond the closely cropped lawn, followed the prince inside.

  "Now this is a gun," Colmuir said, beaming at the enormous rifle in his hands. "You'll enjoy shooting this, mi'lord. Yes you will."

  Tezozуmoc, who had only recently managed to drag himself out of bed, was sitting in the private garden behind the mansion with a steaming cup of coffee clutched in his hands. Despite the frosty morning – Dawd nearly wept with relief to step out into a proper temperature – the prince seemed entirely comfortable in a thin cotton shirt, flannel pants and bare feet. He regarded the Gandarian hunting rifle with naked distrust.

  "You've mistaken my useless commission in the regiment, Master Colmuir, for actual skill at arms. This rifle is longer and heavier than I am."

  "Now, sir – it can only weigh twenty or thirty kilos!" The Skawtsman heaved the weapon up to his shoulder. The heavy wooden stock, inlaid with curlicues of pearl and gold, didn't quite fit into Colmuir's shoulder, forcing him to brace it against his right pectoral instead.

  "Bit unwieldy, though…" Colmuir grunted a bit before he could get his hands wrapped around the firing trigger, which was slightly longer than his thumb. A basket-guard resembling an archaic saber enclosed the trigger and the rest of the fittings were etched with tiny scenes of daily life in the northern kujenate.

  Tezozуmoc scratched his eyebrow, downed the rest of his coffee and set the cup under his chair. "I only weigh fifty-five kilos myself, Cuauhhuehueh. If I pick up that cannon, I'll fall over, much less survive shooting the abominable thing." The prince gestured impatiently at Dawd. "Sergeant, give me your side-arm. I will demonstrate the extent of my martial skills."

  Dawd hesitated for just a fraction of a second, hand clutched possessively over his Nambu, and then forced himself to hand the weapon over to the prince. Colmuir watched the transaction with equal trepidation. Tezozуmoc spat into the bushes, fumbled off the safety, turned his body like a duelist and pointed the gun at the far side of the garden.

  "That potted tree," he said through clenched teeth and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The whip crack reports tripped over one another and a pinelike tree two meters to the left of the potted lemon tree shivered, shedding finger-length needles.

  Dawd's combat visor – currently configured as a rakish pair of sunglasses – showed the other two bullets miss the pine tree as well and crack into the brick wall at the back of the garden. The lemon tree was unharmed. Tezozуmoc turned, shrugged and tossed the gun to the sergeant, who caught it with both hands – gently as a baby – and immediately cleared the action and safetied the automatic.

  "My father – glorious Light of the Heavens which he is – forced a dueling tutor upon me for nine years, Master Sergeant. Among my many faults are unsteady hands and a tendency to flinch. I couldn't hit the side of a ball-court to save my life." He grinned nastily. "Thus, your constant presence."

  "But how -" Dawd swallowed the rest of the sentence, catching the furious expression on Colmuir's face. Flushing with embarrassment, he bowed in apology. "Your pardon, mi'lord."

  Tezozуmoc ignored him, snapping his fingers to summon one of the servants hovering just inside the patio doors. "Bring me something to drink," he barked as soon as a timid-looking Jehanan poked its head outside. "I smelled vodka last night, I'm sure of it – bring me the best you have! Two bottles!" Then the prince turned back to Dawd, who had assumed a stiff parade rest. "How did I graduate Officer School, you mean? Where I had to show skill with rifle, pistol and blade?"

  Dawd remained entirely still, staring fixedly at the puffy clouds cavorting amongst the shining white peaks looming over Gandaris. Tezozуmoc squared his shoulders, planting his bare feet on the ceramic tiles as if he were on parade himself.

  "My glorious father would rather have cut out his own heart than stoop to 'speaking privately' with the commandant of Chapultepec. There were no bribes, no gifts, no quiet exchanges of favors." The prince licked his lips and Dawd caught a glimpse of half-forgotten pain in the prince's face. "A candidate is allowed to bear his personal weapons in the challenge – a rarely invoked privilege in these modern times, but in common use when a noble Mйxica or Nisei youth was expected to bring his own sword, armor, horses and pistols with him to the Castle. My father sent a man to me t
he night before the Last Day."

  The prince's lips curled into a sneer. "He did not come himself. I was provided with a pistol, a rifle and katana of exquisite make. Straight from the workshops in the Radiant Palace itself, I'm sure. Toporosky himself could not have crafted finer weapons. The pistol and rifle were provided with their own custom-loaded ammunition. I wondered if I was meant to use the pistol to end my own life, sparing my father further embarrassment."

  Tezozуmoc scratched the back of his head, still puzzled after so many years. "I didn't. To be truthful, I was so drunk from the Last Night revels I couldn't even stand up when the man came to deliver the weapons. But in the morning, when I woke up with my head ringing with all the hammers in Hachiman's forge of war, I thought of suicide, and then decided to go ahead anyway. If I failed – well, then, I'd have a bit of revenge on him – blackening his radiant name with a tiny smudge. If I succeeded? Well, then anything was possible, wasn't it?"

  The prince's eyes lit, and Dawd saw the servant scuttle up out of the corner of his eye and place a silver-chased platter with three crystal goblets and a chilled bottle of Zlotawoda on a low table. Tezozуmoc ignored the goblets and uncorked the bottle with a smooth, effortless motion. He saluted the sergeant, Colmuir and the distant mountains in turn, then took a long swallow.

  "Ahhh…excellent choice. My compliments to…where is our host?" The prince scowled at Colmuir. "He is remiss in not sitting to breakfast with me. I can tell he is a man of refined and elegant taste."

  "The viscount Gemmilsky is away on a business trip, mi'lord," Colmuir said with a perfectly straight face.

  Tezozуmoc grimaced and lowered the bottle. "Is he dead?"

  "Sir?" Colmuir was taken aback by the furious expression on the prince's face. Dawd was taken aback himself – the young man looked very much like his father when anger sharpened his eyes and made his high cheekbones cut into the dissipated flesh.